


A fact, or two

by MadHatter13



Category: The Memoirs of Lady Trent - Marie Brennan
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BFFs Natalie and Suhail, Canon Asexual Character, Depression, F/M, Family Issues, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Married people making fun of each other, Suhail has a Not Great relationship with his brother to say the least
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2019-02-07 07:40:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12836436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadHatter13/pseuds/MadHatter13
Summary: A series of one-shots about the author's favourite archaeologist.





	1. All right

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers from book three and four.

He dreams again of being shut away in a little black box: arms pinned to his sides, the lid barely an inch from his nose, too dark to see a thing, as if he’s been buried alive, completely unable to move.

                He awakes, still as a rock, as if that invisible coffin is still enveloping him, without a sound, but with his heart going faster than the last time he threw himself off a cliff – something that now feels like it belongs in the incredibly distant past. It is dark, still, in his brother‘s house, but he knows he won‘t be able to fall asleep now. And so he pulls a book from out of hiding under his bed – one of the many that his late father, and now his brother, find blasphemous.

                Here is a fact: Although he is in perfect health, Suhail is very slowly dying. Anyone who had never found a thing they love deeply enough that it becomes the condition for their happiness might scoff at this. But every day of playing politics for his family, every day he grows further away from being the archaeologist he spent the last decade becoming, he feels himself slowly drain away.

                As he lies in the dim glow of the lamp, reading of the beautiful ruins he had once seen with his own eyes, but is now barred from, he wonders how long it‘ll be until there is nothing left of him but a husk. A puppet, then. Something ideal for his brother to control.

* * *

 

It started with forgiveness, or at least the promise of it.

                “Our father is dead, will you please come home?”

                The letter contains words of all kinds, indicating regret (over him being disowned), forgiveness (asking for his, and also indicating that _he_ has been forgiven for being a heretic), and words of promise (of keeping him close – after all, shouldn’t he _want_ to come back now, to keep an eye on the remaining family members he has?)

                He goes back, because there are some practical matters of inheritance to work out – seems that even being disowned did not mean that his father would relieve him of his duties as a son – and also because some part of him wants to believe that this time things will be different, that they will be able to talk, that things won’t go like they always do.

                This hope is, of course, false.

* * *

 

                It starts the same way as always: he is not upholding his duty to his family, he is told, so he makes time for whatever errand Husam sees fit to send him on. Then, he is still reading too much, so he tries to cut back on _that_ , because after all he is living in his ancestral home, and can’t be selfish about his time. Then, he is reading the wrong thing, and accusations of heresy rear their head once more. He wonders about that – none of his books are in any way attempting to convince people to bow to their Draconean overlords , or to leave behind God for whatever beliefs were practiced two thousand years ago. They plainly state: This existed, as can be observed from the material remains that were left behind. Now let us speculate based on the evidence.

                He wonders if heresy was ever the real problem – at least for his brother. For his father there clearly _was_ a problem. But Husam has always done what is Right by his family; he has taken over as Sheikh, he has married and had children to pass the role onto once he dies. He prays the right amount, and gives a portion of the family wealth over to those less fortunate. He is, in every way, the perfect son.

                Granted, Suhail does not skip prayers any more than his brother does, but it must have rankled, to see Suhail go against everything that was intended for him, to run off to dig holes in the ground instead of becoming a prayer leader, like their father wanted.

                These words and gestures of disapproval are almost entirely his brother’s, although his sisters in law occasionally chime in with a Look or a ‘tsk’ when he is somewhere where he should not be, doing something Wrong. Mahira tends to stay out of it, but he can tell that it troubles her.

                It does not take long (well, a year may be long to some, but Suhail can be patient – although he can imagine the look on Mrs. Camherst’s face if she heard him say that) for him to get fed up, to decide to leave. Out of courtesy, he informs his brother. He has become too old to simply run off in the night like a teenager.

                He has barely turned around when he hears him say, in a mournful tone, ‘Leave? Where to?’

                ‘With any luck, back to my research.’

                ‘And then what?’

                ‘Sorry?’

                ‘You have no wife, no children, no family out in the world. What if something goes wrong? Who will you rely on?’

                Suhail says nothing.

                ‘Given your attitude and your reputation, I find it highly unlikely that you will make an advantageous marriage from here on out. What will you do when you grow old? You can’t keep running around the world alone forever, little brother.’

                _Watch me_ , is what Suhail wants to say. Instead, he leaves the room. But he does not _leave_.

* * *

 

                He thinks of Isabella far more often than he expected.

                He has made an endlessly long list of friends since he first ran away from home all those years ago. Most, he has not met since that first time, since he tended not to go through the same place more than once, and many he does not keep in touch with. This is despite liking them a great deal. For one thing, it’s easier to leave them behind entirely than to regret only being able to hear from them in letters. Somehow it’s just... easier to misplace their postal addresses. Maybe it’s a type of self-defence; if he does not keep in touch, they won’t have time to grow tired of him.

                He still has her address, sandwiched on a piece of paper inside a copy of ibn Battuta’s _Travels_. He doesn’t need it – it’s ingrained into his memory. He could send her – or Wilker for that matter – a letter at any time. He does not.

                Even with the stacks of memories filed away in a private corner of his mind – of riding dragons with her (twice), giving her CPR (once), having endlessly fascinating conversations with her (innumerable), even being presented with the potential of a modern Rosetta Stone by her – one specific event stands out. It is her concern for _his_ wellbeing after _he_ cut another man’s arm off. Granted, it had been for Rostam’s own good, but if anyone should have been alright after that whole ordeal, it should have been the man still in full possession of all his limbs.

                He hadn’t. Been alright, that is. But he is both baffled and grateful to this day that not only had she realized, but that she had cared. She was, he knows, an incredible woman.

                He thinks this, like he does with all his left-behind friends, in the past tense, despite being certain that if riding a sea serpent into battle did not kill her, probably nothing will. She is doubtlessly still out there, being extraordinary on a daily basis.

                The tense shift makes that thought a bit more bearable.

* * *

 

                ‘What is this I hear of you being involved in intrigue with a Schirling noblewoman?’ His brother’s arms are folded, and Suhail is very tired, and just wants to finish saddling his camel, so the entire reaction this produces in him is not considerable.

                ‘What.’

                ‘ _Apparently,_ ’ Husam says, with great deliberation, ‘One of your companions on your voyage south of the equator was a woman of some notoriety.’

                He knows he does not mean intrigue in the way that is in fact very true – the spying, guerrilla warfare and cover stories, that is. Well, he’s been requested by the Schirland government not to mention that to anyone and in any case, he doubts that would interest Husam as much as the prospect of Suhail having had a (fictional) affair with a widow who had quite the reputation. Suhail himself does not believe half of it, having known her. The other half he believes precisely _because_ he knows her.

                Knew.

                ‘Yes,’ he settles for, focusing on the task at hand. The camel rumbles and spits on the ground, so it evidently agrees with him regarding the situation at hand.

                ‘Now,’ says Husam, ‘There are rumours you and that scandalous woman had an _entanglement_ of some sort.’

                ‘Really,’ says Suhail wearily.

                ‘Do you have no care for how you will reflect on this house?’

                He sighs. ‘Brother, did these rumours in fact mention me directly? I have not used our family name for years, as father so feared I would.’ Not even in his academic writings; every article he’s written is credited only to his personal name, which had resulted in quite a few attempts at plagiarism. After all, it would not do for the house of al-Aritati to be associated with that kind of heresy.

                He can see that this derails his brother’s train of thought somewhat. ‘If it calms your suspicious mind at all, brother, we merely happened to find passage on the same ship. Mrs. Camherst and her companions were scientists who also happened to find research of interest in some of the places as I. That is all.’

                It is this massive omission that finally makes him realize how much there _is_ to omit. A whole lot, in fact.

                That night, as he tries to fall asleep alone in his tent, heel of his palm pressing into his eyes until he sees stars, every memory resurfaces with the force of a serpent rising from the depths of the ocean.

                There should be some kind of universal law, he thinks, against realizing that you love a person only when you have long since left them behind.

* * *

 

                She’s here.

                She’s here, and there is no warning, no notice, of this cosmic joke being played on him. Because of _course_ she would come to Akhia, of _course_ she would be in Quarrat, and _of course_ she would be here, in his brother’s house, looking about as panicked as he is. Except that she isn’t. She’s very clearly trying to keep a lid on it, which is how he can tell. It’s a very distinctive expression, even behind the veil.

                Because she had no idea he would be here, because he never told her his full name. Because he’s an _idiot._

                But as hard as he tries to act like nothing has happened – probably tries _too_ hard, because what would be wrong with properly greeting old friends? – he can‘t help to be excited beyond belief. She and Wilker, they have a tendency to bend the world around them. Previously impossible things, whether they be new draconic discoveries or hidden temples or stopping wars before they start, tend to happen in their wake, and it feels like a privilege just to be able to observe whatever they do next from afar. _She_ is also quite mad, but then again so is he, so no wonder he is fond of her.

He would do everyhing to be involved. He would do anything she asked him to.

                She asks him to leave.

                He realizes that she didn‘t mean it maliciously, but he also has no reason to believe that his feelings are in any way wanted, so he does as she asks. Even the transcription of the Cataract Stone, which she kept to give to _him_ , even though she had no reason to believe she‘d ever meet him again, did not mean anything in that regard. Even if it made him the happiest he had been for the last three years.

                The thing is, she is going to be alright without him. To believe anything else would be the height of arrogance on his part, and she‘s demonstrated it frequently enough that there could be no doubt to the contrary. Even when he tries to lend a hand, to rescue her from a kidnapper, which everyone around him seems to think should be _very_ romantic, she‘s already half-way out the door when he gets there.

_He_ could be alright, without her – if he went back to his old life, he would have regrets, but he’d be fine, in the end. But he still finds his mind trying to entertain a different future, every time she trips him up in that belief.

_Even in those clothes, Suhail, I knew you. I recognized your stride._

He does not need her to need him – that has never been what any of this is about.

But –

No. That future does not exist.

* * *

 

                That is why he declines her offer to join them in the desert. Because he doesn‘t want to ruin her reputation, because she has so much left to do, so many chances to wow the world and he... He has resigned himself to where he is. Unable to throw away his ties to his family, and unable to make his own, and therefore either stuck here indefinitely, or bound to run away again, leaving people behind no matter where he goes. That‘s all he ever does.

                And then she cuts through all his nonsense in a sentence.

                _Then what if we were married?_

He, honest to God, did not think that his feelings were reciprocated in any way whatsoever, never mind the fact that everyone knows Isabella Camherst has no intention of remarrying – a thought he confides to Wilker about a year later. The look on the man‘s face said it all. Suhail may, in fact, be a little dense, for all his intelligence.

                _Did you just ask for my hand in marriage?_

                She does not need him, he knows, and this thought causes him no great distress. But from her words, her eyes, her expression, he knows: She wants him all the same, for every discovery they will make together. Now, and for always.

                And so he says his goodbyes to his brother and the rest of the family as he leaves his father’s house, this time for good, not a single regret left in his heart.

                He no longer dreams of being buried alive.


	2. Common ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suhail meets a certain flight engineer, and the two find common ground.

It never occurs to him that an extraordinary person like Isabella could ever have anything but equally extraordinary people in her life. When he meets Natalie, he feels entirely justified in his assumption.

                She’s just _there_ one morning, when he comes down to breakfast. He’s up early, as per usual, but Isabella is still asleep and he had not had the heart to wake her since she had been awake past midnight updating the records from Dar-al Tannaneen, which had come by mail the day before. So when he arrives at the breakfast table, set with bread that’s far too airy for his taste and jam which he’s acquired a liking for, he sees a woman with red hair in a tight bun sketching something into a large notebook. There is graphite all over her hands, and smudged on her white blouse, and there is a pencil sticking out from behind her ear.

                She glances up when he walks in, then does a double take, clearly expecting someone else. ‘Oh. You must be Isabella’s new husband.’

                ‘I am.’ His manners catch up to him, and he puts a hand to his heart, still not used to the Schirling method of shaking hands. He tends to stick with his own tradition, given that he may have to get used to a new way altogether when his travels take him elsewhere. ‘My name is Suhail.’ Using only his first name to introduce himself has become far too ingrained in him, and in any case what surnames the two of them are using is still up in the air.

                ‘I heard. Natalie Oscott, engineer.’ She says it as if the occupation is at least as important as her name, a sentiment he can relate to. She only nods to him, not extending a hand, for which he is grateful. He is still deciding which customs to adopt and which to discard, and the rule of not touching women he is not related to is one he can’t settle.

                ‘Are you here to see Isabella?’ He belatedly wonders if he should have used their titles, but if this woman is in Isabella’s kitchen, eating her breakfast, it is safe to assume they’re past that kind of ceremony. Normally, in a house this large, breakfast would be served in the dining room, but it is winter and _dreadfully_ cold and Isabella resolutely refuses to pay for heating up entire rooms of the building if that can possibly be avoided when the kitchen is already warm and toasty all day long. Suhail, who is not a fan of the climate, can’t help but agree.

                ‘Yes – I heard she was back from Akiha, finally, and wanted to ask her about her anatomical notes on Desert Drakes.’

                Suhail sits down across from her. ‘Forgive my ignorance, but how does dragon anatomy relate to engineering?’

                ‘It does when you’re trying to build an efficient glider for human use. Dragons have been flying much longer than we have, so mimicking them should save us from making a fair share of mistakes.’

                He leans forward in his seat, wide-eyed. ‘Could it be – was it _you_ who built the glider Isabella used on the Erigan expedition?’

                She looks mildly surprised. ‘You heard about that?’

                ‘Yes – back when we first met, in fact. I’ve been fascinated by the idea ever since.’ Less from an engineering point of view than of the simple curiosity of what it would be like to fly, not in a caeliger, but almost under your own power, not unlike a bird or a dragon might. ‘From that story it sounds like you’ve already been very successful in your designs.’

                She preens, in the way of an expert who knows they have a chance to talk about their field of knowledge. ‘They work, that’s true, but they’re difficult to control without essentially throwing your weight around, and if you make the wrong judgement on that it could mean an immediate collision with the ground. I’ve managed to fly them successfully myself, but I’ll keep tinkering with them for a good long while yet before I let anyone else risk their hide using them.’ 

                They talk excitedly about the gliders for a good while, toast cooling on the table between them, entirely forgotten in the face of more interesting things than food. Natalie is obviously very intelligent, and an expert in a field totally different from his own, something he enjoys more than anything else in a conversation partner; it means there is little chance of running out of topics to discuss. She’s just invited him to visit her workshop some opportunate time, when she says, ‘Truth be told, I was a little worried, when I got Isabella’s letter. About the marriage.’

                ‘Given how rushed the whole thing was I would be surprised if you hadn’t been.’

                She laughs. ‘No, not for that reason. Isabella never does anything by halves, so that wasn’t too surprising.’ She pauses, trying to find the right words, or possibly ones that would not offend. ‘You know her reasons for why she’d decided not to remarry?’

                ‘I know some of them.’

                ‘Well, a major one was that it would almost certainly have restricted her as a scientist. There are very few men, in this country at least, who would be happy with their wife leaving for jungles or deserts or far-away archipelagos for an extended period of time, and those who share her profession tend to claim their wives’ discoveries as their own. I could give you a list. It’s horrible to say but if Jacob – her first husband – hadn’t died... she might have fallen into obscurity like so many others before her.’ Her stomach grumbles, and she reaches distractedly for a piece of dry toast, and eats it as is, like a steam ship taking on fuel rather than a person eating for the pleasure of it. ‘He wasn’t a bad man, but he was brought up to think that women needed to be taken care of, for their own good.’

                Suhail huffs in amusement. ‘I could not think of a less likely person to whom the idea could be applied.’

                ‘That’s why so many of us avoid marriage in the first place,’ says Natalie. ‘Which is difficult without financial support of some kind. I would not be where I am today if not for Isabella.’ There is a fierce gratefulness with a side of protectiveness in her voice, and even though she truly does not need taking care of, Suhail is very glad that his wife has had such supportive people in her life. He is wondering how he might express this when Natalie says, giving him a crooked smile, ‘But I should have known – Isabella would never resign herself to that, so whoever she decided to be worth it must be pretty remarkable themselves.’

                He’s at a loss at how to reply, which is when the woman herself walks into the kitchen wearing a dressing gown and with dark bags under her eyes. She yawns into her palm, and kisses the top of his head, then spots her friend through watering sleepy eyes. ‘Oh, hello there, dear. Sorry for the lack of fanfare, it is as if we got home yesterday instead of two weeks ago.’

                ‘Given how much you’ve been working, I’m not at all surprised,’ Natalie drawls, pulling out a chair for her.

                ‘Tch. Did Tom tattle on me again?’

                ‘He doesn’t have to, your yawning did that for him.’

                Isabella grumbles, and pours herself a cup of coffee – the quality of which may be Suhail’s to take credit for, as he had taken one sip of whatever it was the butler had brewed and poured it down the sink, muttering in three languages about northern Antitheopeans and their disaster of a palate.

                As Natalie passes her the sugar, she catches his eye, and the simple understanding of two people who care for the same person passes between them.

                Suhail smiles, and reaches for the jam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Natalie is one of my favorite characters, and it breaks my heart that she does not get much screentime after The Tropic of Serpents, so obviously these two had to meet.


	3. Rumour has it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isabella's year abroad in Akhia resulted in a whole lot of journalistic gossip. Fortunately, Natalie scrap-booked every single one.

The scrapbook Natalie compiled in her friends’ absence lies open on the table, tabloid articles crammed thickly on each page. It contains pieces from pretty much every rag publication in Schirland, a few from “legitimate” newspapers _and_ even a couple from papers abroad. They’re arranged from oldest to newest: from the start of the mysterious army commission, up to and including the disreputable wedding and the subsequent scientific discovery that redeemed it.

            Grinning, Suhail turns a page.

            ‘You’re being unfaithful to me with an Erigan prince,’ he remarks out loud, as if commenting on the weather.

            ‘Really?’ Says Isabella, not even looking up from her anatomical sketches. ‘I thought that was last Athemer?’

            ‘No, that was with an Akhian sheikh,’ Suhail says, flipping a couple of pages back to verify this recollection.

            ‘I think I was mixing it up with the one where I eloped with a Nichean sailor,’ she replies. ‘Good lord, I hope they do not mean your brother.’

            ‘They don’t mention anyone specific by name,’ says Suhail. ‘I suspect they merely included that detail because they think it sounds _exotic_. Although he will no doubt work himself up once he hears of it.’    

            Isabella rolls her eyes. ‘People have manufactured a scandal over less.’

            His grin widens. ‘Do not worry, you’re not the only one being slandered. According to _this_ piece from the _Falchester Inquirer_ , I only married you for your money.’

            ‘ _What_ money?’ She asks, looking up incredulously. ‘ _You_ were the one who might have inherited under different circumstance – if anything _I_ should be the gold-digger here.’

            ‘Have you forgotten that the government wants to offer you both that and a title?’

            Her face furrows. ‘I’m trying my best to, yes.’

            Suhail returns his attention to the offending article, which had been run in particularly garish print. “ _...lives a life of leisure at his wife’s expense in their estate...”_

Isabella scoffs. ‘A townhouse is an “estate” these days? What must the economy be coming to.’

            Suhail gets up, scrap-book in hand, and strolls over to her desk, looking over the anatomical drawings she is painstakingly colouring to be engraved in her and Tom’s upcoming volume on desert drakes. ‘It seems they have got me coming and going. I do nothing but laze about, only appear in public as your eye-candy so that you can flaunt my youth and _exotic_ looks,’ he rolls his eyes at the word. ‘I should have seen it before. I cannot believe you only married me as a trophy-husband, Lady Trent.’ He leans against the desk, now completely unable to hide his baiting grin.

            She swats him on the arm. ‘You are barely two years younger than me, Suhail, and I know for a fact you go out all the time! You have been working every day on the Draconean script for _months._ ’

            He laughs. ‘True. But the papers don’t want to hear that.’

            Isabella glances up at his smiling face, and a slow grin steals over her own features. ‘Perhaps they have it partly right,’ she says.

            ‘How so?’

            ‘You do make for very pleasing eye-candy.’

            Suhail laughs again, and Isabella smiles, and leans forward to better kiss her trophy-husband.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a lot of fun to write. I have a feeling that Isabella, after being in the spotlight for so long, no longer reacts to gossip about herself in any way shape or form. Natalie and Suhail, meanwhile, can still find it a source of amusement at her expense :D


	4. Just a touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Suhail-Natalie friendship! Along with my personal, much footnoted headcanon.  
> Originally a gift for The_Icelander.

Here is a fact: Suhail is an immensely affectionate man, physically speaking.

            At least this is true when it comes to those he knows and cares about. The fact that his culture does not allow him to be so at all towards half of the world‘s population (excepting relatives) puts a bit of a cramp on this sort of natural demonstrativeness. Add it to the fact that many of his later friends come from other cultures, each with a new set of rules that place _entirely different_ restrictions on people in this regard means that Suhail has learned to keep himself to himself.

            Of course, this did not keep him from occasionally take advantage of when those rules were in his favour. In Keonga, for example, the fact that one of his closest friends was culturally _not_ defined as a woman nor a man meant that he could have told any rules to the contrary to go hang. He does, up to a point, but only as far as is necessary to keep her from drowning, and to ride the dragons together. There is the fact that these rules still apply with the crew on their ship, and if he suddenly shirked them, people would definitely notice. But that is secondary to the fact that _she_ considers herself a woman (well, with some exceptions, as it turns out) and he does not wish to overstep her boundaries. Still, he loses count of all the times he wanted to embrace her, in relief or celebration or just because he liked the idea of it, pure and simple.

            When he returns home to Akhia, sick at heart and lonely, Mahira receives the brunt of his affection, which frequently manifests in using his poor, older-but-significantly-shorter sister as an armrest whenever he forgets himself. She grumbles about it good-naturedly, in the way of siblings everywhere.

            Once he and Isabella sort out the legality of their marriage (approximately an hour and fifteen minutes after she proposed, which was how long it had taken to find someone to officiate), all that dammed-up energy breaks out, although he tries his best to keep it out of the public eye. Largely for her sake, since her semi-aristocratic upbringing does not lend itself easily to such display. On his part, this means more embracing, hand-holding, and general subconscious casual touches than he‘s ever experienced in his entire life. She‘s not as demonstrative, being by personality less fond of physical contact than he is, although she seems to particularly enjoy winding her fingers through his hair.

            He tries his best to tone it down, because that is a lot to put all on one person, but all that does is that the bulk of it... Spreads. As he finds out when he falls asleep one evening leaning against Wilker, on the ship back to Schirland. The man has very soft shoulders, so sue him.

            He should probably start calling him by first name at this point.

            Isabella seems amused and slightly relieved, while Tom accepts it with philosophical resignation. Suhail, who had been ready to back off the issue entirely in case either of them had been put off by it, thinks he may be in Paradise.

            It‘s only downhill from there, since it only takes becoming friendly with a few of Isabella‘s closer friends once they set up shop together in Falchester until he‘s basically draping himself over people left and right and centre like they‘re furniture. Thankfully he knows to pick the ones who a) care little for their own culture’s prohibition on physical contact and b) like him enough to put up with it. Jake is an easy fit, and puts up with his step-father ruffling his hair even after he gets older and should by right find the whole thing quite embarrassing.

            The whole ‘do-not-touch-women-outside-your-family’ rule goes straight out the window as soon as he meets Natalie, who as it turns out has been personally testing her glider designs in the absence of Isabella and Tom there to dissuade her (although in all honesty this really meant just Tom). It takes him less than a split second after he sees them; lightweight, built of leftover dragon bone and canvas, to ask if he can try them out, to the exasperation of Tom and the resignation of his wife. It is kind of difficult to fly a two-person glider without the two pilots ever touching each other – in fact, that kind of reticence could prove fatal dozens of feet above the ground – and so another rule is quietly struck from the record, or is at least appended with a sub-clause. It takes him a while to notice, but when he does he’s immediately alarmed enough to bring it up with Isabella. She shrugs it off, not being fond of rules of any sort herself, and says that it should be fine as Natalie herself doesn’t mind.

            It is not long before the engineer – short enough for him to comfortably rest his elbow on her shoulder – takes the place of his long-suffering elder sister.

            He worries about this for some time, wondering what his brother might say if he saw Suhail acting so barbarically. He even speculates whether he’s abandoning his own culture by acting this way, but in the end it does not make him any less Akhian to show his friends and family affection – far from it. The only difference is that he has redefined his own perception of family to suit his new life. It harms no-one that he can see. Once he finds out that Natalie has no interest in men – no interest in anyone, in fact – but does quite like hugs, which are not always forthcoming since her grandfather passed away, it stops being an issue in his mind entirely.

            He figures he can bend the rules a bit in her case. After all, he has no family by blood in this country, so should it not be alright if family by a different measure fills that gap? And after countless flights, interesting conversations and numerous cases of what Natalie refers to as ‘Trent-wrangling’ (a.k.a. persuading Isabella to do such things as go to sleep or eat a meal when she is under the thrall of research), Natalie Oscott is his sister much the same way that Tom, along with Andrew, is his brother-in-law.

            Suhail never expected to remain in the same place and be content about it. But on a Selimer afternoon, he looks around the study at their house in Falchester, at the gathered scientific community and among them, his unexpected family members. Everyone is talking over everyone else, about ornithology and geology and engineering and dragons and archaeology, each person more excited than the next. Then, his red-haired sister appears at his side and pulls him away by the elbow because there is someone he simply _must_ meet.

And Suhail cannot help but smile, at this strange personal Paradise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *stands on a table*  
> *picks up a megaphone*  
> *clears throat*  
> LET THIS MAN HUG HIS FRIENDS


	5. Evidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the usefulness of scars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is really Isabella-centric, but it's from Suhail's pov, so I decided to add it to this collection.  
> This chapter references events in the fifth book, Within the Sanctuary of Wings. However, I tried my best to be as vague possible and not mention anything particularly spoileriffic. The main implication is that a) Shit Went Down and b) the cast was separated for some time. However, if you *really* don't like spoilers, the first scene alone can stand as a one-shot.  
> Also, the tense-shifts between scenes are intentional, so please try not to get too mad at me for those.

‘This one?’

                Suhail pulled down the collar of his shirt to further reveal a slim white scar on his collarbone. ‘Cut myself on a trowel,’ he said.

                Isabella’s face contorted in both amusement and disbelief. ‘Honestly?’

                ‘They can be very sharp!’ He shrugged. ‘To be fair, another excavator threw it in my direction, and I failed to catch it. I’ve never seen a man so terrified of his own strength before. He must have apologized to me a couple dozen times.’

                They were sitting up in bed in their (still new enough that Suhail sometimes had trouble thinking the plural rather than _hers_ , Isabella’s) house in Falchester. It was a warm summer evening, which meant that the window was open, and Suhail did not feel inclined to wrap himself in four blankets and wear two sweaters to bed. He did not even dislike the cold as much as Isabella, who during the winter months would sometimes do her work in bed if it meant she did not have to step on the frigid floors for even a second. She was only wearing a light sleeveless nightgown which showed off her callused hands and her tanned, strong arms. The current conversation had begun when Suhail had looked to the large, ragged scar on her shoulder (peeking out through the collar and extending a little ways down her right arm) which was by now quite familiar to him, an asked where it came from.

                ‘Wolfdrake,’ she’d said. ‘The hunters shot him just before he reached me, or he would have gone for my neck. Almost broke my arm, too – their forlimb strength is quite formidable, you know.’ She looked at it as if she had not thought about it for a long time. ‘My mother was distraught. She was certain no-one would want to marry me if I was disfigured.’

                Suhail found himself, not for the first time, thanking some very malicious thoughts towards his estranged mother-in-law. ‘ _That_ was her main concern?’

                ‘Oh, I think she had others, too, but she had a funny way of showing it. Still does.’ Then she had turned the game on him, probably to divert the discussion from heavier thoughts.

                ‘What about this one?’ She asked, reaching out to touch the small line on his left jaw. He reached up and rubbed at it, almost surprised to find it still there. ‘Shrapnel,’ he said. ‘When we had to flee the Banu Safr in the mountains. A bullet ricochet off a rock we had ducked behind and a piece cut my face.’

                ‘I’m glad it was a misfire,’ said Isabella.

                ‘So was I, up to a point. One of them got my cousin Malik.’

                ‘Ah.’ She didn’t say anything else. She was not well trained at giving people comfort, especially with words. But she reached for his hand, then, and squeezed it.

                He smiled. ‘That’s me twice, now. Tell me one of yours?’

                Isabella looked down for inspiration, and her eyes strayed towards a dent in her left forearm. ‘This one. I fell into a river full of Fangfish – ever seen piranhas? Well, imagine them, but bigger. Took a chunk out of me, the bastard.’  Although she edited her speech in public, Isabella had spent too much time around people who deployed curses as if they were simply adjectives to not do so herself. ‘Thankfully I managed to get out before the adults could smell the blood in the water and have me for both lunch and dinner.’

                Suhail shuddered. ‘And you call me reckless!’

                ‘I said I fell in, didn’t I? I wasn’t there on purpose to measure just how tasty human flesh is to dragons at an early stage in their life-cycle, or something!’

                ‘No, but I bet you’re thinking about how to accomplish it now.’ He grinned at her, and she shoved him.

                ‘No, I’m not. Anyway, if we did we’d use a suitable stand-in, like a pig or something.’

                He resisted pointing out that this constituted thinking about it, and she retaliated, ‘Then  what about the ones you have in your palms? _And_ on your thighs? Gaining them doesn’t constitute reckless behaviour?’

                He gaped at this unexpected left hook. ‘I got those in Keonga riding the sea serpents – you know I did, because you have ones to match!’

                ‘So I know exactly what I’m talking about,’ she said primly, as if she did not enjoy tracing those scars late at night or, indeed, whatever time of day they might have the privacy. He found himself shivering, and not because of the open window.

                ‘Those were a real bother while they were healing,’ she lamented. ‘I couldn’t hold a pen properly for a week, and I was already behind on my notes. I was definitely insufferable about it, if you ask Tom.’

                He laughed. ‘Do _all_ of your scars derive from dragons? Mine are usually either because of something stupid I did once. Or entirely due to accident. So far, yours all seem to have a combining factor.’

                ‘I have a few that are not nearly so dramatic,’ she protested. ‘Cut my finger real deep while slicing bread once, that one still shows. Stepped on a sharp rock in Bayembe when my first pair of shoes were about to fall apart.’ She looked somewhat chagrined at this short list, but with just a spark of pride in there as well. ‘But most types of dragon I’ve come across have left some kind of mark on me. Even the sparklings got me, tiny as they are.’ She brushed her hair out of the way and showed a tiny white dot behind one ear. ‘One of them zapped me when I first started researching them. Burnt part of my hair off, I didn’t leave the house without a bonnet for a month.’ Her eyes strayed to the ceiling, like they did when she was in deep thought. ‘The savannah snakes count if you include the time I cut myself while skinning one. The only notable exceptions I can think of are the Desert Drakes, which is amusing given just how violent they can be. That and...’ She trailed off, and her brow furrowed. ‘Rock wyrms.’

                It took him only a moment to understand the change in mood. She had already told him the detail she felt able to provide about Jacob’s death in Vystrania. Rock wyrms had featured largely, and had frequently attacked people. Something which she had been able to make use of.

                _She had told him then, one night back in the desert: ‘I should feel regret- or possibly shame for leading two men to their deaths that day, not unlike what happened with Aeschelin. That one I do regret, although at that point it was my only defence from almost certain death. Being killed by a dragon is a horrible way to die. But Gaetano Rossi I cannot bring myself to feel sorry for in the least, for he quite directly killed Jacob. Grief may dim with time but wrath at injustice seems to stick around indefinitely.’_

_He was no expert, but he was certain that there was no “should” when it came to emotion so large. When he told her she had given him a thin smile and said, ‘You know, I keep thinking it won’t be long until I scare you off. But you handle everything I throw at you so I suppose I should try to relax.’_

                She seemed to look at the bite marks on her arms with new eyes now. ‘You know,’ she began, then hesitated. Suhail only waited. It was not often that his wife felt inclined to share her more personal thoughts, which she did not consider all that interesting in comparison to say, dragons. He most certainly did not intend to get in her way the few precious times that she did.

                She began again. ‘It often struck me as odd,’ she said. ‘Most other times in my life, when something... Momentous happened, I would have some physical evidence to show for it. The wolfdrake attack resulted in me from being banned from showing any interest in science for two whole years. The Battle of Keonga, the months in the jungle, Jake’s birth, even, all left a mark, in their own way. And I could look at myself and think, ‘Ah, here is proof that it happened. That I’m not entirely the same person as before.’ She seemed very far away now, and picked at the wolfdrake scar as she thought. ‘After Vystrania, though, after... After Jacob’s death, I had no proof. Sure, I had Jake, as people insisted on reminding me, instituting him as some kind of relic of his father. But aside from that, I had gone away, and come back, and although every single thing in my life had changed, I still appeared exactly the same to those around me.’ She chewed on her lip. ‘Whenever I looked in the mirror, I thought, ‘Did it really happen? Or was it just a terrible nightmare? Or worse yet, a malicious daydream?’’ She surfaced from whatever deep place her mind had gone, and shrugged awkwardly. ‘I wonder... maybe it would have felt more real, had an injury lingered.’ She huffed. ‘I’ll pass on the pain all the same, even if I can put up with it, but scars do have their uses. It’s a silly thing to pay this much mind too, though.’

                Suhail had only an inkling of an idea of what might be the right response, but after a moment’s hesitation, decided to trust his instincts. He pulled up his shirt to reveal the ink on the lower left side of his ribcage. ‘Did I ever tell you about this?’

                ‘Vaguely,’ she said, glancing at the Akhian script and then looking him in the eye. ‘You said it was a quotation by a scholar you admired, although you seemed anxious to change the subject.’

                ‘I was,’ he said, and let his shirt fall back into place. ‘It is the opening sentence to one of the oldest pieces of scholarship on the draconian ruins in Akhia. In translation it is something like...’ He thought for a moment. ‘“ _We concede that these events may seem incredible, but nevertheless, they did occur._ ”’ He ducked his head with an abashed smile. ‘I got that a year after my father cast me out, from a tattoo parlour in a Haggadian trading port. I have sometimes felt embarrassment looking at it since then, but I realize that back then I needed the reminder of why I was doing what I do, even at the cost of my family, who would not admit that the Draconean civilization even existed. Even though I did not know the way forward, I knew I could not go back, and this was my evidence.’ He ran his hand through his hair, feeling that the words had got away from him. ‘My point is, I suppose I understand where you’re coming from.’

                She was looking at him now, with an expression which betrayed nothing. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘Perhaps that was not at all helpful.’

                The smile spreads across her face slowly, like a snake leaving its nest to bask in the sun. ‘Quite the opposite,’ she said, voice low. ‘And it tells me that you will likely keep surprising me indefinitely.’ She leaned forward to press a kiss against his jawline, not far from where the shrapnel had struck him. One hand stroked the long-healed cut on his collarbone. ‘You’ll forgive me if I take the time to make myself familiar.’

                His hand found the jagged angry red lines on her shoulder. ‘Be my guest.’

* * *

 

Everything felt so cluttered, after all that happened during Mrtyahaima and, later, Yelang. What little time they had away from everything that had to be done to ensure the future of the inhabitants of both places left little room for words of much substance. The fact that events separated them _again_ for a long while felt like the most unjust trial ever devised by the Almighty to Suhail. He took heart in the fact that the harder they worked, the sooner they could pass on their tasks to others. To tell the truth he was not at all sure that they were the most qualified for something so political, but the plain fact was that for the time being, they were the only ones who cared – with, thankfully, the addition of Tom, Andrew and Thu Phim-Lat, who had decided that he owed them after their assistance to his cause.

                Their goodbye had been brief, as Isabella was rushed off to Yelang with Tom. They all tried not to dwell on it, but the forced smiles had not been all that convincing. And those very smiles had revealed something on their own, too.

                Tom had leaned in, looking absolutely aghast. ‘Good god, Isabella, is that – are you missing a _tooth_?’

                She had jumped at his exclamation, and reached a hand to her face. ‘Oh, that. Yes, I got an infection. Ruzt had to help me pull it out.’

                His wife’s oldest friend had looked at her with the expression of someone who has been quietly exasperated for nearly a decade at this point but does not anticipate stopping anytime soon. Isabella had bristled. ‘What? I don’t know what to tell you, Tom, it was exactly as disgusting as you imagine it to be. I’d rather not try that again, but at the time it was either that or blood poisoning.’

                ‘We’re finding you a dentist,’ he’d muttered. ‘First thing once we arrive in Yelang.’ His voice had brooked no argument.

                The twin reminder of the time they had spent apart and the unknowable number of instances she might have died froze something deep in Suhail’s abdomen, and forced a laugh out of him. ‘I guess you have your proof, now,’ he had said.

                Isabella’s eyes had lit up in recognition. ‘I... Yes. I suppose you may be right.

                It was a sour note for them to depart on, but it would have hurt no matter what. Suhail returned to his Draconean language studies, and prayed for summer.

***

Reunion is almost anti-climactic. Through a series of bureaucratic shuffles, the five of them all meet once more in a Scirling diplomat’s office in the capital of Vidwatha. Andrew wastes no time embracing his sister with enough force to lift her clean off her feet, and Isabella drily comments that he is getting too old for that kind of thing, which breaks the tension well enough that Suhail no longer feels he may suffocate to see her and Tom at the other end of the room, real and alive and agonizingly distant. The poor diplomat, who is rather too prim for his own good, looks nothing short of panicked as what was supposed to be an official meeting descends into friendly arguing and all-around silliness. Phim-Lat, who not only possesses a much more subtle sense of humour than Suhail has given him credit for, and often plays the straight man to Andrew’s loudmouth, intercepts the politician before he can demand some kind of order, for which Suhail finds himself immensely thankful.

                He jumps only a little bit when Tom puts an arm around his shoulder. ‘It’s been a while,’ he says. ‘Have you cracked the Draconean language yet?’

                Suhail grins. ‘Getting there. Have you gained the dislike of every politician on the continent yet?’

                ‘Getting there.’ Tom relaxes. ‘It’s good to see you.’

                ‘You, too.’

                ‘I kept an eye on her, like you asked.’

                Suhail feels some of the tension leave his spine. ‘Thank you.’

                ‘Keep an eye on who?’ Asks Isabella, who has finally disentangled herself from her brother.

                ‘No-one,’ says Tom, face blank.

                ‘That’s a shame,’ said Isabella, stepping forward. ‘I suppose that means I asked Andrew to keep an eye on _you_ for nothing.’ And she embraces him, even though her brother and her friend and more importantly some political stranger are all watching. Isabella has Rules about public displays of affection, and this is one of the few times she breaks them. Suhail also has Rules, but spends most of his time wishing he did not need to follow them.

                ‘I have something to show you later,’ she murmurs in his ear. ‘Although you may not be too happy about it.’

                They all deign to show some restrainant after that for long enough for the poor beleaguered diplomat to provide them travel papers to return to Scirland. Isabella requests another meeting with his superiors, to gain their support of her interests in Mrtyahaima, but is told it will have to wait a few days. Realizing that they have all been in various states of travel for a while now, they all go in search of food, and Suhail leads them to a restaurant he had been to when he last visited the country years before. He’s surprised to see it still there. Although the cooks and the menu have changed, this does not matter to him in the least. The food is still good, and he is surrounded by people he has missed. The only way to possibly improve the evening would be if Jake and Natalie suddenly walked through the door, but Suhail knows not to ask for too much, and counts his blessings.

                Later, in a dinky hotel room, he washes and lays down his prayer mat for Salah, and gives his thanks. Although he had to postphone it while they were in the mountains, the month of fasting is long over. But he has prayed with even more diligence than usual, both out of gratitude and renewed faith. When they were first separated, he did not pray for her safety, because he thought it was a moot point, but he was observant anyway, even in his darkest hours. Some days it was the only pattern to follow, while they waited for the season to change and the mountains to be passable again.

                Isabella sits on the bed silently, and when he gets up and rolls up the mat she looks towards him without much of an overt expression, but her eyes carry such intense fondness that anything else would not feel half as true in comparison. He sits down next to her, and they look at each other for a while, and he thinks that it will take a very long time for him to grow sick of doing nothing but that. ‘Hello,’ he says.

                Her mouth quirks. ‘Hello.’

                Silence. There is a lot to be said, of despair and hope and wrath and love, but later, when they can assemble the words. He drapes an arm around her shoulder, and she leans into him, and but for the commotion on the street outside, there is peace.

                ‘It will be a long way home,’ she says.

                ‘True. We’ll have to settle the matter of your will, although I don’t think Natalie had already executed your estate by the time the news reached Scirland.’

                ‘ _Our_ estate,’ says Isabella.

                ‘Hm.’ He decides to leave that conversation for later, and says, ‘I believe you said you had something to show me?’

                She blinks. ‘I almost forgot.’ He expects her to get up, but instead she leans back and pushes up her left sleeve as far as it will go. ‘Here it is.’

                Suhail looks at the blue and black ink composing the dragon which twines its long body around her bicep, then up at Isabella, who says, ‘I had it done on our way out of Yelang. Losing a tooth was evidence enough, but I decided I wanted a reminder on my own terms.’ It is long healed, but the colours are fresh, even though they will eventually fade a little. Because it is Isabella, it is no generic fantastical dragon, but one of the serpents of Yelang, intricately anatomically detailed.

                ‘It’s not a royal breed,’ said Isabella. ‘I thought it would be rather presumptuous, and in any case I doubt anyone would have drawn me one without a hefty bribe. It’s a species of water serpent Tom and I spotted there the first time we visited, although that indirectly lead to us being thrown out of the country.’ She made a face. ‘Long story.’

                ‘It suits you,’ he said.

                She half-laughed, and frowned her way through a smile. ‘I’m going to say something,’ she said. ‘But I’m not at all certain it will make sense. Would you mind indulging me?’

                He only nods.

                She frowns in thought, and says, ‘Do you remember what I said, about the only dragons not to have injured me noticeably being Rock wyrms and Desert drakes?’

                ‘I do.’

                ‘The first one... hurt, because it was an absence. Jacob was taken from me and I had no evidence of how or why it happened, aside from an empty house. But it has been long enough now that it does not bother me. I have gained enough since then to know well how and why my life is as it is now. I no longer need that reminder.’ She swallows, and says, a little unevenly. ‘Those months in Mrtyahaima, I missed you terribly, and continued to do so in Yelang, although it was an immense relief to know you were safe in the meantime.’ She touched the ink absent-mindedly. ‘But in that tattoo parlour, I realized I did not need reminder of the desert drakes either. I knew I would see you again, and you are reminder enough of everything that happened in Akhia.’ She reached for his hand. ‘But more importantly, you’re here. And... that is better than any scar or ink. Do you understand?’

                He feels himself choking up, but manages to say, ‘I do.’

                ‘Good,’ says Isabella. ‘Good.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I expect to end up extensively researching various religious prohibitions on tattooing when I first started writing this fic? Not really, but it was a lot of fun. In Suhail’s case, Amaneen religion (aka Islam with the serial numbers filed off) largely prohibits tattoos, but it depends on who you ask, what the tattoo depicts and how it is administered. There have been various times in history where tattooing was encouraged or straight-up traditional. Additionally, as far as I’ve been able to ascertain, Suhail and his family are ethnically Bedouin, where there is a long tradition of tattooing (particularly facial tattoos for women). I couldn’t find a good place to work it into the story, though, but rest assured that at least to Suhail’s extended family, there isn’t anything heretical about a bit of ink (although his brother may disagree just on principle). 
> 
> In Isabella’s case, I did my research as well, but decided she would be less bothered, being pretty much agnostic and in any case coming from a society that pretty secular. There is also plenty of evidence for women during the real-world Victorian era sporting tattoos, whether they were there for all to see or only known of in private. Although she will likely never tell her mother about it, I believe she takes some pleasure out of knowing how outraged Lady Hendemore would be. Although she pretends otherwise, she never quite grew out of wanting to do things just to make her mad.  
> I know there's probably more instances of Isabella not being savaged by every draconic species out there, but I picked up on a trend between those focused on in the memoirs, and decided it made for a good story.
> 
> Trowels really can be that sharp. I once worked with a guy who sharpened his every morning, and struck fear into junior excavators everywhere.

**Author's Note:**

> I was curious to explore just what kept Suhail from leaving Akhia and going back to his career, and this is one angle I came up with.


End file.
